The Bookshop Detective Read online

  “Yup, in fact Alfonso has given the group a new routine to learn for the summer festival so they’ve been busy practising their moves. You should see Harold in his Cuban heels – he cuts quite a dash, I can tell you. And you thought Mum’s internet date was a scammer and Harold didn’t really exist.” Eleanor smiled to herself, knowing that Jenna didn’t like to be reminded that sometimes she got things wrong.

  “Yes, it goes to show that not even I – your wiser, taller, older sister – can be right every time.”

  Chapter 8: A Blast from the Past

  As Eleanor sat in the campervan chatting to Jenna, Daniel was on his regular run around town. After a few circuits of the little park with its Edwardian bandstand and flower clock, he decided to call in at his father’s bungalow for tea and a chat.

  Malcolm opened the door to find his son in a sweaty heap on the front step. “Come in and tell me how you got on yesterday,” he said, leading the way into the kitchen. “Were those houses any good?”

  “One was dreadful, three were okay and I thought two of them had potential. Actually, the 1960s property was stunning – all clean lines and big views.”

  “It sounds quite promising.”

  “You might think so, but I can’t persuade El to make up her mind about any of them. I’m starting to think she won’t ever choose a new house.” It wasn’t the kind of thing Daniel ever talked about – if friends asked when he and Eleanor were going to move, he made a joke about being impossible to live with. His father was not the sort of man to get into conversations that strayed into “delicate” territory, but today he decided it was time to say what he thought.

  Malcolm was immensely fond of his new daughter-in-law, but could see the strain living in two places was having on his son. “I know it’s possibly an outmoded view, but it does seem only right that you should set up home together, now you’re man and wife.” He paused to give Daniel a mug of strong tea and a thick slice of Maureen’s simnel cake, bought yesterday at Ye Olde Tea Shoppe. “I suppose I am an old fuddy-duddy. On the other hand, I do understand Eleanor’s reluctance to leave that lovely cottage of hers. It is jolly convenient for the shop and she has done it up beautifully.” He stirred his tea, thoughtfully. “Can you really not share it with her?”

  “I’ve half-moved in, as you know. The problem is it’s too small for two adults with as much stuff as we have – even after Freya cleared me out. Joe’s with us at the moment and there’s nowhere for my daughter to stay when she visits. And there’s also the tiny problem that I need a decent-sized office to work in.” Daniel was a traditional architect who still enjoyed building scale models out of balsa wood and working in pen on large sheets of paper, not just designing things on a computer. “We need more space, Dad.”

  “And Eleanor can’t be persuaded to move in with you?”

  “I’ve tried, Dad, believe me. And she probably would if I insisted, but I don’t want to force her into it.” He ran his hand through his hair and sighed. “Ideally, I’d like us to find somewhere we can create together.”

  “It hardly seems unreasonable in the circumstances.” Malcolm smiled at his son. “I’m sure she’ll come round in time.”

  “Time!” Daniel made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a cry. “We’ve been together over two years and married for six months. How much more time does she need?”

  Malcolm frowned. “In that case, maybe you need to try a different tack: be firmer with her – tell her how concerned you are and set a deadline, perhaps.”

  Daniel laughed. “Eleanor’s not great with deadlines. No, I’ll have to be patient for a little while longer, that’s all.” As he said the words, he believed them, but deep down he wanted the situation to be resolved and he left his father’s house with a heavy heart.

  Jogging back down the hill, the thought nagged at him that his first marriage had failed and his second was not going as smoothly as he would have wished. How committed was Eleanor if she didn’t want to set up home with him?

  He had reached the end of the path where it joined the main street when he bumped into Freya looking cool and elegant in a pale blue dress, a pair of outsize sunglasses perched on her head.

  “Well, hello Dan. And where are you going in such a hurry?”

  “It’s called jogging and I’m going home if you must know.”

  Freya arched a slender eyebrow in a subtle gesture that managed to convey amusement, curiosity and a tiny bit of disdain. “And where is home these days?”

  Daniel stood with his hands on his hips panting slightly. He nodded towards the sea front and the bright red door of his house. It was known as The Widows’ House because of the two women who had lived there before him. “You know perfectly well where I live,” he said, immediately angry with himself for falling into Freya’s trap.

  “With Edwina?”

  The infuriating woman always knew how to push his buttons for maximum effect. “My wife’s name is Eleanor.”

  “Of course it is. Silly me.” Freya smiled. “It’s odd, but I could have sworn I saw you coming out of the bookshop cottage with bags of clothes the other morning. Don’t tell me you still haven’t persuaded Eleanor to move in with you.” She laughed outright. “Or has your snoring grown so bad she makes you sleep half a mile away?”

  Daniel could feel the pressure building at the base of his skull, partly as a result of pounding down the road from Malcolm’s house and partly from being put on the spot. It felt as though he’d been caught out, even though he and Eleanor made no secret of their unconventional living arrangements.

  “Why the hell do you care who I live with and where?”

  “Oh, idle curiosity.”

  “Well, it’s none of your damn business. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got work to do.” And with that he turned and ran towards his house, furious with himself for losing his temper when they both knew that Freya only had to ask their daughter Emily what Daniel’s living arrangements were. Freya had played him for a fool, yet again.

  Once at the house, he stomped angrily around the kitchen ruing the day he had let her take their very expensive coffee machine. He had bought the damn thing for her birthday only a few months before their marriage broke up and, yes, he could quite easily afford to buy a new one but it rankled nonetheless.

  He made himself a cup of nasty instant coffee and headed for the shower where he hoped a blast of cold water would help push Freya’s face from his mind. But it was not to be. Even though they ran into each other fairly regularly, Dan’s heart always missed a beat when he saw Freya’s familiar figure in the distance, a leather folder of architect’s plans under one arm.

  It had not been his idea to divorce and the pain of dividing up “stuff” had been hard, but nowhere near as hard as wrenching Freya from his heart. She was his first love and her abandonment had left him hurt and angry.

  When they separated, Daniel told her to take whatever she wanted from the cliff-top house they had designed together, a decision he regretted when she emptied the kitchen of all their best knives and gadgets.

  Freya really was the most infuriating woman Daniel knew, yet he couldn’t help feeling proud of what she’d achieved professionally. Since their separation, she had gone from strength to strength and he had almost grown used to seeing her name in the tabloids as the “wacky” architect responsible for the latest startling development.

  Although they had trained and worked together, Freya was always the ambitious one: whereas Daniel was happy to build modest extensions for a nursery school or the doctor’s surgery, Freya was keen to work with clients who wanted one-of-a-kind homes built from scratch, which is how she had ended up working for Bill Widget.

  Daniel picked up the mug of cold coffee and swished it angrily down the sink. Pushing the wet hair from his brow, he examined his face in the bathroom mirror. “When will you ever get the hang of women?” he asked his reflection. The face in the mirror had no answer.

  Chapter 9: A Visit to the Library

>   Eleanor and Daniel both agreed to a break from house-hunting the following weekend, so Eleanor took the opportunity to walk over to the library in search of inspiration for new window displays. She tried to change them every couple of weeks and worked hard to come up with exciting themes, some of which were more successful than others.

  Last summer she’d created a holiday window with buckets and spades and plastic windmills. Shifting what seemed like a ton of sand had nearly done her back in, but the deckchairs and picnic hampers did look very jolly and caught people’s eyes.

  Eleanor didn’t always stick with traditional themes. A few months after she had taken over the shop, there’d been a craze for a series of dreadful erotic novels. She and Erika had had great fun dressing up the window with pretend bondage gear from Graham’s hardware store topped up with some chains and spiky dog collars purchased from Purrfect Pets. Visitors had loved it and Eleanor had enjoyed watching the reactions of passers-by more used to her predecessor Mr Williams’ sensible displays of books on military history. Eleanor thought it was a triumph, but there had been a number of “Outraged of Combemouth” letters in the Chronicle so she’d had to tone it down a little.

  Mulling over ideas for the festival week, she’d come to the conclusion that focusing on history might be just the job. She could dress the window with bits and pieces begged and borrowed from friends and neighbours, then display children’s classic storybooks, romantic sagas, books on collecting antiques and local history. She wanted to narrow down the local history part and to do that she needed to research what Combemouth was famous for in Victorian times.

  Eleanor had browsed her own shelves and realised that, although she had plenty of walking guides, she didn’t have many books on history or folklore, which was why she’d decided to check out the library. She had loved libraries until she became a bookseller, since when she worried that they might lure away potential customers. And librarians were a funny lot – fancy giving someone a book to read then expecting them to bring it back. Preposterous!

  Stuffing a notepad into her bag, Eleanor headed over to the library, cutting down side streets to avoid the main road which was busy with shoppers and tourists dripping ice cream down their tops.

  Peering through the glass door of the building, her heart sank when she saw Dismal Deirdre sitting at the information desk. She had expected one of the cheerful volunteers to be on duty, but she was out of luck. Eleanor hoped to duck behind the display boards and skirt past the librarian unnoticed, but it was not to be.

  Form a vision of an old-fashioned librarian and she is likely to look like Deirdre: a thin, wiry individual in a tweed skirt. Her skin, hair, eyes and cardigan were all in shades of blue-grey, as though she’d been placed in a shop window and left in strong sunlight for so long that the colour had leeched out of her. She was the only qualified librarian in town, the others having been sacked by the council and replaced with eager volunteers in the latest round of “efficiency savings”.

  Deirdre felt herself to be far superior to them and certainly superior to booksellers who, to her mind, were nothing more than amateurs. Recognising Eleanor as she approached across the dusty carpet tiles, her thin lips formed themselves into a polite smile. “We don’t often see you in here, Mrs Mace.”

  “Pearce – I’m Mrs Pearce now.”

  “Ah, yes. So you are. Congratulations, if I’ve not said it before.”

  You haven’t, thought Eleanor, gritting her teeth. “Thank you.”

  Unlikely as it seemed, Deirdre had been a supporter of Daniel’s ex-wife. Freya had been a member of the library’s rather earnest book club, a fact of which Deirdre was immensely proud. She thought it lent the club gravitas to have a woman of Freya’s creative talents among them. It wasn’t every club, she liked to boast, that had an award-winning architect in its midst. Ironically, Eleanor had it on good authority that Freya couldn’t abide Deirdre – something the librarian was blissfully unaware of.

  Since she was now based in London, Freya’s attendance at the book club was sporadic at best, and it seemed to Eleanor that Deirdre held her unfairly responsible for the departure of the group’s most interesting member.

  “How can we help you today? Looking for a book?” Deirdre chuckled dryly. “Of course, a little shop like yours is quite limited in what it can stock whereas through the library system we have access to every book in the country.”

  Eleanor smiled, suppressing an urge to grab the pencil that Deirdre was using to gesture at the shelves and jam it up the woman’s nose. “I was hoping you could direct me to any books you might have about the local area.”

  “Local agriculture? Archaeology? Our geology and geography? Wildlife? Flora and fauna? Folklore? Folk music? If you can tell me exactly what you’re looking for, I shall be able to direct you further.”

  The woman was so smug and insufferable that Eleanor couldn’t bring herself to give her any more information. Instead she said, “Oh, nothing in particular. If you can point me in the direction of folklore, I’ll start there.”

  Satisfied that she had succeeded in overwhelming Eleanor with choice, Deirdre stood up and came round from behind her desk in the sky blue “Service Pod”. “If you’ll follow me.”

  “Oh, there’s no need.” It was hardly the British Library and she wasn’t likely to get lost. “If you point me in the right direction I’m sure I’ll find it.”

  “No, no – I insist. It’s all part of the enhanced information experience we now offer to our clients.”

  The enhanced what? And since when did libraries have clients? Eleanor was obviously not going to win this one, so she meekly followed Deirdre’s bony hips across the room and up some steps to a mezzanine area whose dull-green walls were lined with bookshelves.

  Deirdre gave Eleanor a satisfied smile. “If you require any further research assistance or need help using the ‘Read, Renew and Return Pods’, do feel free to ask.”

  “Thanks,” said Eleanor, sourly. She took off her jacket, hanging it over the back of a chair, and plonked her bag on the oval table. A man snoozing in an armchair at the other end of the mezzanine stirred at the sound, then closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

  Wrinkling her nose at the musty smell rising from the corner, Eleanor went over to the shelves, pulled out half a dozen titles and carried them over to the table. It was strange, but library books had a scent of their own – of greasy fingers and other people’s living rooms.

  The book on folklore she picked up was from the late 1950s, but not much seemed to have changed in Combemouth and the year was still punctuated by wassails, summer regattas and harvest festivals. She jotted down a couple of notes, but there wasn’t much here that wasn’t already familiar to her.

  The next book was a collection of essays on industry at the turn of the twentieth century and showed farmhands with immense bushy beards wearing smocks, holding pitchforks and standing next to melancholy mules.

  Another chapter featured fishermen mending nets and preparing lobster pots. Turning the page she found a group of men on what she recognised as their harbour. Behind them was the Ship Inn where she and Daniel liked to sit and watch the activity in the bay over a drink. The fishermen were swarthy, any exposed skin tanned by the harsh weather they encountered out at sea, month after month. In the black and white photographs, the men’s eyes shone out of their dark faces making them look startlingly alive.

  For a moment, Eleanor felt a strange sensation wash over her: it was as though there was nothing between her and the men in the photo. No camera, no book, no time. The men’s intense gazes seemed to flicker as she stared at their faces and she felt herself being sucked into the page. The sensation lasted for a fraction of a second then was gone. A blind flapped as a spring breeze blew through the open window behind her and she shivered. She shook herself, feeling slightly foolish, and closed the book.

  The fishermen’s sombre expressions brought to mind Maureen’s story about the ghost ship and Eleanor shivered agai
n. Was it possible to do a jolly window display about the town’s seafaring heritage without mentioning death and drowning, she wondered? Probably not. But people loved pirates! Yes, that was it. She could have a window featuring fishermen, the Santa Ana and a few smugglers. She tapped the pen against her lips and frowned. That sounded like a bit of a muddle. And wouldn’t a fishing theme be too close to her seaside window of the previous year? Perhaps she’d do best to restrict it to pirates and ghost ships. Eleanor smiled to herself, thinking of the children’s books she could feature.

  Happy to have some ideas to work on, she walked over to the shelves and carefully restacked the books apart from the one with the fishermen, a history of smuggling and a collection of marine myths and legends from the South West.

  Mission accomplished. All that was left was to sneak past the Keeper of the Books. Looking down from the mezzanine to the floor below, Eleanor could see that Deirdre had cornered some other poor woman in the crafts area and was loading her up with books about cross-stitch. Seeing a chance of escape, Eleanor trotted down the stairs, quickly checked out her books at a “Self-service Pod” and escaped into the sunny back street.

  * * *

  In bed that night Eleanor leafed through the books, making more notes of ideas as they came to her. “Wow – there’s something here about the Combemouth ghost ship.”

  Daniel turned and leant on his elbow, looking at the book about marine myths propped up on Eleanor’s lap. “What does it say?”

  “It says pretty much what you told me the other day: that she is only seen every few years, often in late spring and usually in the days before or after a full moon. ‘No one has yet come up with a scientific explanation for the vision,’ blah, blah, ‘but some superstitious folk believe a sighting of the Santa Ana heralds trouble.’ Yikes, I don’t much like the sound of that.” Eleanor turned the page. “There’s a rather nice illustration here, though,” she said, tilting the page towards her husband.